Future Imperfect
by Montana-Bob
Summary: By the year 2022, Stan has left Kyle, Kyle has hesitantly reunited with Stan, the world's economy has collapsed, and society is in ruins. Kenny is wracked with guilt over something that happened 25 years ago, and old enemies want to take what little they have left. Professor Chaos may hold the key to surviving all of this.
1. Prologue: Some Future History

**A/N: **_This is the fourth in a story arc, beginning with 'Dude, Who ARE These People?', followed by 'When I Make A Promise' and 'Poseidon'. Events in this story begin ten months after the epilogue of 'Poseidon'._

_There's fan "art" for this story (doctored photos actually) on my LiveJournal page at fallingwthstyle DOT livejournal DOT com SLASH 4800 DOT html (there's a clickable link on my profile page) Of course I own none of this._

Chapter 1 – Prologue: Some Future History

On Tuesday October 19, 2021, Stan quietly celebrated his 31st birthday by drinking himself into unconsciousness with Kyle and their two best friends after making them promise not to try to give him any sort of surprise party. Kenny and Butters carried him up to his bed while Kyle cleaned up Stan's puke in the living room and changed Stan's shirt before they laid him down to sleep it off.

Two days later, after a very long conversation with his uncle Jimbo, Stan secretly sold off all his investments, totaling nearly six million dollars earned from his position at McCormick-Stotch Enterprises as well as an insurance settlement for having survived the _Poseidon_ disaster.

Kyle knew that something was wrong during the days that followed. What he didn't know was that Stan was hiding a depression far deeper than the one he had gone through when he was ten. Middle age was terrifying to him; he could only wish that one of his biggest problems was that Adam Sandler wasn't funny anymore.

Stan leased 100 acres in Wyoming where an abandoned farm sat empty and unused, 250 miles to the north from an old army buddy of Jimbo's, and a week later told a furious Kenny, an incredulous Butters, and a sobbing Kyle that he was leaving. He tried to get through his own pain enough to try to make Kyle understand that he wasn't leaving him for good, and that they would be together again someday; he "just couldn't do _this_ anymore." He got into his car, drove off, and just like that he was gone

On November 8, 2021, as Mayor McDaniels stepped to the podium to deliver her acceptance speech after narrowly being reelected mayor of South Park for an unprecedented sixth term, an assassin's bullet plowed through her forehead and blasted fragments of her skull against the backdrop behind her; she was dead before her body hit the stage. Eric Cartman (who had lost by a very small margin to her in the run for Mayor) was the first person to reach her, even before any of her security guards, trying to protect her with his own massive bulk even though it was obviously too late. That act, plus the impassioned speech he gave afterward, was more than enough to get him appointed Mayor of South Park, as well as distract any sort of suspicion of involvement in the assassination from himself.

On January 24, 2022, the world's economy began a rapid fall into a great depression. The rest of the world had finally realized that the USA was insolvent; within weeks, trillions of dollars of wealth around the world had vanished. As both the national and local governments collapsed and social services were scaled back or eliminated, starvation and rioting in big cities ran rampant. Kenny had seen this coming for months and had been quietly accumulating supplies they would need when the shit hit the fan.

Foreclosures on homes reached a never before seen level, forcing tens of thousands of people out onto the streets. On March 1st, the remnants of the federal government issued an executive order leading to what was eventually dubbed the 'Take in a homeless family whether you want to or not program'. Mayor Cartman was more than happy to personally oversee this in his town, and Kenny and Butters were forced to take in a completely disagreeable family of four; the mother (father had long since departed) made Kenny's mom look like a saint. Kyle was similarly forced to take in five people; after two weeks, at Kenny and Butters' urging, he sold his and Stan's house at a rock bottom price and moved in with his two best friends, because as Kenny put it, "at least we all like each other, dude."

In Wyoming, Stan bought a used two-bedroom single wide mobile home, and with some help added an enormous room addition to it. He spent that summer learning through trial and error (and lots of help) how to be a farmer.

On October 5th, 2022 Kyle received a cryptic email from Stan. It was titled 'In case you're sick of living in South Park', and contained only one sentence: "See you in two weeks for my birthday?" There was a photograph attached of a hand-drawn map showing the way to Stan's house, beginning with an exit off Interstate 80, along back roads he described on the map as 'unpaved', ending with a large letter X. Kyle immediately replied: "I'll try."

At 12:05 a.m. October 20, 2022, Stan raised a cheap plastic Denver Broncos cup of whiskey and water toward the picture of himself and Kyle hanging on the wall behind his woodstove, said "To you, Kyle," and drained half the cup in three large gulps. His 32nd birthday had come and gone without Kyle to help him celebrate. He refilled his cup and settled in for a session of drinking himself into oblivion.


	2. Reunited, And It Feels So Good

CHAPTER TWO Reunited, And It Feels So Good

**A/N:**_ Happy Birthday to my friend from across the pond, Howtodisappearcompletely :-) _

Stan squeezed his left eye shut and squinted with his right toward his living room table. Even with one eye closed, the room was still spinning madly, but at least now there was only one of everything. He was annoyed at himself for setting the whiskey bottle so far away on the table, but any attempt to lean forward in his chair to retrieve it would lead to him falling on his ass (or his face), and he was so drunk that he didn't think he'd be able to get up again if that happened, and he didn't want to pass out on the floor.

He began to resign himself to falling asleep right here in his reclining chair.

Stan looked around, assessing his situation. He briefly considered trying to crawl to his bedroom and rejected the idea. This wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in this chair. He was glad he'd tended his woodstove an hour ago, so at least he'd be warm until he woke up again, but he wished he'd thought to bring a blanket to the chair while he could still walk.

He settled back, finally managing to get his feet elevated in the chair's footrest after a couple of failed attempts. Guilt tried to push its way into his thoughts and he fought against it, knowing all the dark feelings and ideas that would follow if he gave in to it again like he had three hours ago. At least he'd waited until after midnight, the morning after his birthday, to start drinking after there'd been no word from Kyle. It was now almost 3:00 a.m.; he'd long since gone from drinking whiskey in a cup with water and ice to drinking it straight from the bottle, which he had foolishly set down out of reach.

He realized that it was probably time to sleep it off anyway.

An elderly brown and white Bassett Hound wandered in from the mobile home's kitchen into the room addition, toenails clicking across the wood floor. He lay down nest to Stan's chair with a loud sigh, red rimmed eyes regarding Stan impassively.

"Hey, Humphrey," Stan slurred. "I don' s'pose you could bring me that bottle from the table, could ya?"

The dog's answer was another heavy sigh.

"Yeah, okay. Thas' what I thought. Like Kyle's mom would've said, 'Lassie you're not'." He laughed at his own joke and the Bassett Hound closed his eyes.

Stan looked toward the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting on his table again. Why he'd set it down so far away was an annoying mystery to him.

At 4:00 the previous afternoon, Stan's friend and occasional employer, Travis Chambers (who owned the property Stan was leasing along with thousands of acres more), drove up the steep road in his pickup truck and parked in front of Stan's house. Stan was gathering eggs from the chicken coop and came outside at the sound of the truck's diesel engine.

Travis climbed out of his truck. He was a large man with an enormous grey beard and bright, friendly eyes behind a pair of horn rimmed glasses that didn't suit his face at all.

"I see your friend hasn't made it yet," Travis had said, handing Stan a birthday present wrapped in bright red paper; Stan guessed from how neatly it was taped that his wife must have been the one who wrapped it.

"Not yet," Stan had replied, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. From its shape and size, Stan had already guessed the contents of the package even before he tore the paper off it. He unwrapped a large blue box with a bottle of expensive Crown Royal whiskey inside it, purple tote bag and all.

"Well, I won't stay long in case he does," Travis said. "But I did want to bring you a present and wish you a happy birthday, and maybe have a drink with you."

"Thanks," Stan said, eyeing the fancy etched glass bottle and forcing a smile. "You really shouldn't have." As was customary here, he twisted off the bottle cap, took a swig, and passed it to Travis.

"Sure I should have," Travis had replied, taking a long pull from the bottle and handing it back.

_No,_ Stan had thought as the alcohol burned its way down his throat, knowing that if Kyle didn't show up (which was beginning to look like what was going to happen), he would probably end up drinking the entire bottle tonight by himself. _You really shouldn't have._ Stan took another drink and passed the bottle back.

Travis had stayed another ten minutes and left, shaking Stan's hand and wishing him happy birthday again and telling him to take tomorrow off. Stan finished gathering eggs (23 this time, a pretty good day), finished his other chores around the meager farm he attempted to run, had dinner, and settled down to watch mindless action movies on TV. At the stroke of midnight, he got up from his chair and made himself a very strong whiskey and water and stood next to his woodstove. As a tear ran down his cheek, he raised his cup to the framed photograph of Kyle and himself on the wall behind the stove. They were about twelve years old in the picture, smiling happily. Their eyes were still bright and full of life, their futures still wide open before them. Kyle's gloved hand was waving to whoever had taken the picture. "To _you_, Kyle," he whispered sadly and downed half his drink in three large gulps.

He sat down in his reclining chair, still staring at the picture and tears now running down both cheeks. "Why did I leave you?" he whispered. He looked around, at the cheap wood panel mobile home walls, the four bunk beds in the corner opposite the woodstove, his big screen TV, and finally back to the picture. "How did I ever think _this_ would be better than what I had with you?"

He shook his head and swiped angrily at his tears, and got up to make another drink, finishing his first one on his way to the kitchen.

Five hours later and two hours after he had fallen asleep in his chair, a vehicle turned onto Stan's road, its headlights shining through the mobile home's living room and kitchen windows. They drew closer, then stopped at least 100 feet away. The vehicle's engine revved loudly, but the lights didn't move.

Stan slept through this, but the Bassett Hound awoke and lumbered into the kitchen and put his paws on the windowsill to look outside. The headlights went out, and thirty seconds later came back on again and stayed on. A low growl rumbled from the dog's throat. Two minutes later, both of Stan's cows began lowing hoarsely outside and there was a commotion from the chickens. Stan slept on, but when there was a knock on the door and Humphrey began barking, he awoke and sat up. For a moment he wasn't certain what had set the dog off, but then there was another urgent-sounding knock at the door.

"Come in?" he called groggily, wincing hard as his head threatened to start pounding. Humphrey's barking was like a knife behind his eyes. "Humphrey!" he snapped, and his head thudded painfully at his own voice.

The knob twisted a couple times like the person on the other side was having trouble turning it, and then the door swung inward. His visitor stepped into the trailer's living room and looked around curiously.

Stan struggled to his feet, wincing painfully. "Kyle!"


	3. 3

Kyle gripped the steering wheel and squinted into the darkness through the muddy windshield. He was terrified; it was 4:00 a.m., he was driving on a mountain road that was a dark and slippery nightmare, and he could feel his blood sugar plummeting dangerously. He'd run out of diabetic-friendly snack food that he'd bought this afternoon for the final leg of this trip a couple of hours ago, and he was beginning to realize that he had badly miscalculated. He could have stayed in a motel and finished this trip well fed and rested but decided to push on. He knew that if he didn't find help soon, whether it was from Stan or a complete stranger, he might die tonight.

The morning had gotten off to a bad start when he finally left South Park two hours later than he'd planned, but it had taken that long to pack his car to the ceiling with luggage and boxes. He finally hugged Kenny and Butters goodbye with a "hope to see you guys soon" and headed north.

He stopped in Laramie Wyoming for a late lunch and to stock up on snack food, and headed west on I80, the snowcapped peaks of the Medicine Bow Mountain Range off to his left. He took the exit Stan had indicated on the map he'd drawn around 4:00 in the afternoon. The map showed him driving north and eventually driving about 40 miles on an "unpaved road" that he had hoped to make good time on; unfortunately the road turned out to be badly maintained, plus a recent rain had made it very slick and treacherous.

Just before sunset, Kyle's left front tire went flat. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration and climbed out onto the muddy road. It took ten minutes to retrieve his jack and spare tire from the trunk, and when he went to raise the car up, the ground was too soft and the jack kept sinking and tipping over. He was nearly screaming with rage after three failed attempts at jacking up his car, knowing he could probably give in to it and shout all he wanted to; it had been at least half an hour since he had seen another vehicle.

As he was setting the jack up for his fourth attempt, a pickup truck finally came along from the other direction. It stopped, and two men in their early 20s climbed out. Kyle realized he was either about to get help or get robbed and possibly beaten. His hand tightened around the tire iron as they approached.

"Need a hand mister?" the larger of the two asked. They were both large, rough looking men. The one who had spoken was wearing a red plaid shirt with the sleeves torn off; his freckled arms were massive.

"Please," Kyle replied tiredly. The guy who had spoken appraised what Kyle was trying to do and turned to his friend.

"Go get a couple of those blocks out of the back of my truck, wouldja?" The other man turned and walked away while red shirt knelt down beside Kyle. He pulled the jack out from under the car. "We'll get this changed for you in no time, sir."

"Thank you," Kyle said, trying to sound as sincere as he possibly could. He knew he'd be lucky if he got to Stan's by midnight at the rate he was going.

The other man returned, carrying two large, wide boards. Red shirt took the longer of them, set it on the ground under Kyle's car and set the jack on top of it. With the board spreading the weight of the car beneath the jack, it only took the two men working together ten minutes to change Kyle's tire.

"I hope you don't have too far to go," the other guy said as he tightened the last of the lug nuts. "It gets pretty muddy a little ways ahead. We barely made it through a few miles back."

"No, not too much farther," Kyle lied, dreading the rest of his trip even more after that remark. They all stood up and the two men started back toward their truck. Kyle handed each of them a twenty dollar bill as they were about to leave.

"Hey, thanks mister." They drove off, waving. Kyle sat in his car for several minutes trying to calm himself. His own efforts with trying to change his tire had taken a lot out of him; his hands were trembling and his vision was starting to blur, sure signs his blood sugar was getting low. He was too upset to bother using his meter and he knew himself well enough to know what he needed, so he ate almost half of the crackers and peanut butter he'd bought earlier and washed them down with a carton of orange juice, feeling himself slowly returning to normal.

Kyle started the car and set off again. By this time, the horizon had already faded from brilliant reds and oranges to a deep blue-black behind the mountain peaks. His headlights barely penetrated the darkness ahead, and his progress was maddeningly slow. Midnight came and went and as the hours passed and he went through all the snacks he had bought, he felt his body failing again. By 4:00 a.m., his vision was blurring, and he knew he was in serious trouble.

He came to a five-mile long stretch of road that he was certain he wasn't going to make it past; it was narrow, rutted, and a river ran parallel to it twenty feet down and away on the left, with no guardrail separating it from the road. Several times, he felt his car wanting to slide toward that side and go off the road, and he had to stop and back up to get straightened out again.

Even as the road kept getting worse, he finally felt relieved when he saw the first of the map's landmarks appearing up ahead in his headlights: An enormous gate (open, as Stan's map had indicated it would be) with numerous 'Private Property' and 'No Trespassing' signs (many of them hand-painted) on both sides of the road. He didn't dare slow down to read any of them for fear of getting stuck, so he drove straight through and kept going. He began to feel hopeful; according to the map he was almost there, and after another mile, he saw the next landmark up ahead on the right: A long row of mailboxes lined up on a wood beam. According to the map, Stan's house was only a quarter of a mile away, up a steep road on the right just after the mailboxes.

His car barely made the turn without getting stuck and he gratefully watched the river recede in the distance in his outside mirror. A moment later, he knew he was in trouble. His car managed to go perhaps fifty feet up the steep hill, then it slid to the side of the road and became hopelessly stuck, the back tires spinning uselessly and throwing mud into the darkness behind him.

"_Fuck!_" he screamed, nearly crying with frustration, wanting to beat his forehead against the steering wheel. He mashed his foot angrily on the gas pedal and only managed to move the car forward a few inches and sling a lot more mud behind him. The car shuddered violently as the rear axle sank deeper until the frame was against the ground and he finally let his foot up again.

"Oh shit…oh shit…" He knew the car wasn't going to go any farther. He could see lights in the darkness from a house several hundred feet ahead. He was going to have to get out and walk to that house, and hope that either Stan did live there and was home, or whoever lived there would help a complete stranger at 5:00 in the morning who was about to fall into a diabetic coma. He didn't want to think about having to explain that, let alone having to possibly break into a stranger's house to steal food from them if no one was home.

The possibility of being shot also occurred to him.

He shut off his car, turned off the headlights, and stepped out with only the dome light to guide him. His shoes immediately sank into an inch of mud. As soon as he closed the door and the light went out, he knew he wouldn't be able to make it in the dark, so he reached back inside to turn his headlights on.

With the high beams lighting the way through the darkness, he set out on foot toward the lighted windows ahead. As he finally drew closer, he could see a mobile home with a long covered porch running the length of it up ahead, set near the top of a hill surrounded by tall pine trees. Kyle resolutely began walking faster. Either someone would help him when he got there or they wouldn't (or he would break in and help himself to whatever he could find).

He passed a building that he recognized as a chicken coop. Two black and white cows were standing behind a fence on the other side of the road, and as he walked past them they both began bellowing loudly. The chickens inside the coop began squawking a moment later, and despite how badly he felt, Kyle couldn't help but laugh at the cacophony he'd caused.

There was no porch light. Kyle wearily climbed the three stairs onto the porch, the headlights behind him throwing double shadows on the metal siding of the trailer. He hoped that if this wasn't Stan's house, at least whoever lived here was kind.

Whoever's house this was kept their porch neat, and Kyle scraped his shoes carefully on the edge of the top step before moving ahead toward the trailer door to wipe his shoes again on the welcome mat. His heart was pounding hard and he could feel it in this throat, and he wasn't sure if it was from fear that it wouldn't be Stan who answered the door, or if he was about to have a heart attack.

He pressed his cheek against the door and knocked. What sounded like a very large dog began barking inside. He knocked again, and the strength almost went out of his legs when he recognized the voice from the other side of the door. "Come in?"

It _was_ Stan, on the other side of this cheap mobile home door, inviting him into his house. Kyle felt at least some of his strength returning with the relief that at least no one was about to shoot him.

He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and twisted. For a second he thought it was locked, then the knob turned and the door swung away from him. He stepped inside.

The mobile home had an enormous room addition added to it, more than tripling the size of the living room. A Bassett Hound waddled over and sniffed his shoes curiously. Stan was sitting in a black leather reclining chair, and struggled to his feet at seeing Kyle, having obviously just woken up.

"Kyle!" Just the way Stan said his name was endearing. It was still _Stan_, eleven months later, and obviously either very drunk or hung over. Kyle remembered the promise he'd made to himself not to judge, no matter what, as he took in how fucked up Stan looked right now. There was a large half-empty whiskey bottle on the table next to his chair, and Stan's eyes were red and heavy-lidded.

"Stan?" Kyle said, forcing himself to smile as if this scene was pretty close to what he had expected to walk in on. "Um…happy birthday, dude."

The dog barked once at him. Stan crossed the room with surprising grace for how bad he looked and said, "quiet, Humphrey!" He threw his arms around Kyle and hugged him desperately; Kyle hugged him back, realizing he was probably more hung over than drunk. "Kyle," Stan moaned, clinging to him. "You made it…you're here."

"Dude…it's really good to see you too." Kyle replied, hugging him back. Stan seemed content to just stand there holding him. "And…I'm sorry…but if I don't have something to eat in the next twenty minutes or so, I'm going to be really sick, okay?"

He felt Stan stiffen in his arms, and Kyle knew he was going to be okay. Stan knew what to do.

"Kyle…shit!" Stan backed away a step and grabbed him by the wrist. "Come on!" He pulled Kyle into the mobile home's kitchen, pulling a chair back from the dining room table. Kyle sat down heavily, noticing the seven other chairs around the table and wondered what kind of life Stan had been having here without him, and whether there were times when all eight of these chairs were being used at once.

"Dude!" Stan said anxiously, putting a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Just sit tight, okay? You're going to be all right."

Stan patted Kyle's shoulder once more and went to his refrigerator. A few moments later, he was pouring orange juice into a tall clear glass and setting it on the table next to Kyle's trembling hands. He watched anxiously as Kyle lifted the glass with both hands and began drinking it in large gulps.

"What can I get you, Kyle?" Stan was almost frantic as he turned back to the refrigerator. "I can scramble some eggs, or I've got cereal, or some left over lasagna…"

"Lasagna?" Kyle asked hopefully, setting the glass down and looking at his hands. It seemed like the quickest and easiest, plus it sounded really good. He was already starting to feel better just from the juice.

"Yeah! You want that?" Stan opened his refrigerator again and pulled out a plate with an enormous slab of obviously homemade lasagna. Kyle looked up and saw at least a dozen egg cartons, probably more, stacked up on the bottom shelves of the refrigerator. Stan put the lasagna in the microwave oven on the counter, slammed the door and pushed a couple buttons on it. The microwave hummed and Stan quickly sat down next to Kyle, this time resting his hand on Kyle's forearm.

"I'm not going to be able to eat all that," Kyle said, laughing weakly as he looked at the enormous portion of lasagna spinning slowly on the turntable inside the oven. "And why do you have 150 eggs in your refrigerator, Stan?"

"I have 26 chickens, Kyle," he replied with a grin. "Each one lays an average of one egg a day. I've got to put all those eggs somewhere." It was like he was lecturing the world's slowest student. "And if you can't eat all that, I'll just bring two forks, dude," He sat down in the chair next to Kyle, still looking worried. "Do you think you're going to be all right?"

Kyle raised his glass of orange juice in a silent toast and drank the rest of it.

"Relax, Stan; I'm feeling better already. I'll be fine." He knew that was true, but he was also very aware of what a close call it had been. If Stan hadn't been here, or if he'd gotten lost, or stuck in the mud miles away… He shook his head, trying to clear those thoughts; it had been a close call but he had made it, and he was with Stan again. He looked curiously around the room. "Dude…this place is _nice_." The room addition was big enough that there were two ceiling fans rotating slowly overhead, and with its leather furniture and wood floor it was rustic yet warm and inviting. An electric guitar leaned against an enormous amplifier against the wall beside the bunk beds. "I wasn't really sure what to expect when I learned you were living in a trailer…but this is a nice house, Stan."

The alarm on the microwave beeped three times and Stan jumped to his feet again. He grabbed two plastic water bottles from the refrigerator and put them on the table before setting the plate of lasagna down and getting two forks from the silverware drawer.

"Hey, Kyle," he said, sitting down again and handing Kyle one of the forks. "In the interest of full disclosure: The pasta in this is about the only thing that was store-bought. This cheese?" Stan's fork poked a large chunk of it and lifted it from the plate, trailing tendrils of gooey strands. "A lady who lives a couple miles from here made that. Same thing with the tomato sauce. And the ground beef?" He laughed. "You don't want to know!"

Kyle dug the side of his fork into the lasagna and cut a large piece off, not really caring about what Stan was saying. He blew on it and pushed it into his mouth. It was fucking delicious.

"This is awesome Stan, thank you," Kyle said around a mouthful of food. He swallowed and washed it down with several sips of water.

Across the room, a log in the woodstove popped. Kyle looked up at the sound and spotted the picture of himself and Stan on the wall.

Stan carved out his own forkful of lasagna from the plate between them. "You're welcome, Kyle. I'm glad it's okay." He blew on his food and ate. "You look a lot better already. You were really pale when you first came in here."

Kyle poked his fork into a large chunk of beef. "Yeah, I'm going to be all right now."

The brown and white Bassett Hound wandered into the kitchen, sitting down a foot from Kyle's chair and looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Kyle chewed the piece of meat while they stared at each other.

"How did you end up with a Bassett Hound named Humphrey, Stan?" Kyle looked at Stan and smiled, holding another forkful of lasagna between them. "I always pictured you as more of a Sparky-type dog person."

Stan chuckled, sitting up straight in his chair. "He used to belong to an old man who lived about a mile from here." He stabbed another forkful of lasagna. "He was dying…and the thing he cared most about was finding someone to take his dog after he was gone. No one else around here really wanted an old Bassett Hound; what else could I do, you know?"

Kyle blinked, and then looked into Stan's eyes and remembered again why he had fallen in love with him a quarter century ago. _Because there's no one else on this earth like him. _Stan's eyes met his, and they both knew they were thinking the same thing.

"Kyle…" Stan said tentatively, reaching across the space between them to rest his hand on Kyle's forearm. "You know I hated to leave, right? But…I just couldn't…"

"Stan, no," Kyle interrupted. "Let's not talk about this now, okay? I know…we should talk about a lot of things, but…" He trailed off. Kyle knew they _would _have to talk about the last eleven months sometime, but he had more important things to discuss with Stan now. "Stan, there some other stuff we need to talk about first."

Stan nodded. "Okay."

Kyle took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "It's Kenny and Butters," he finally said. "They want to come here, too. And Stan, look. I know: This guy, Travis, doesn't really like the idea of a lot of strangers moving here. But…after you sent me that email? We, ah, the three of us all went to talk to Jimbo. And he seemed to think Travis would be all right with what Kenny wants to do…" Kyle pulled something from his jacket pocket; Stan watched him unfold two sheets of paper stapled together. "If they can come up here, they'll be driving a big truck, and they're bringing this with them."

He handed Stan the two sheets of paper. It was a long, single-spaced list. Stan ran his eyes down the first page and whistled.

"The number ones in parentheses after the first couple of things means Kenny wants to keep one of each of those for us," Kyle told him. The rest, he's just going to give to Travis for letting them stay."

Stan knew the moment he started reading down the list that his friend and landlord would go for this.

_(4) Honda Four-Wheel All-Terrain Vehicles (1)  
__(6) Briggs and Stratton 7,000 Watt Generators (1)  
(6) Shihl MS 150 C-E Chainsaws (1)  
__(720) M.R.E.s (Meals, ready to eat)  
__(300) 5-pound bags of rice  
__(200) 5-pound bags of sugar__  
_

"I've already got a generator and an ATV," Stan said, still reading. "But he's bringing better ones than I have, and we could always use extras." He read some notable items on the list aloud. "Two hundred five-pound bags of coffee." He chuckled. "Looks like we're not going to get much sleep for a while around here. One hundred sixty cans each of corn, peas, green beans, tomato sauce…that's stuff we kind of _don't_ need."

Kyle grinned. "He wasn't exactly sure what he might need when he was buying all that."

Stan flipped the first page over and began reading the top of the next sheet of paper. "Wait…what? Fifteen ten-ounce gold bars? Dude, that's like…"

"Almost a quarter of a million dollars' worth of gold," Kyle finished for him. "He's bringing plenty more that he didn't put on the list that he's keeping for us. He's willing to give up everything on that list for a safe place like this for him and Butters to live…if it's okay with you, too."

"Dude, yes, of course! And I'm sure Travis'll go for this." Stan stood up and got his phone from the kitchen counter. Kyle watched him press '2' on speed dial and wait. "Travis. Hey, yeah, good morning." He listened for a moment, then looked at Kyle. "Yes, he did! About half an hour ago, uh huh." He rested his hand on Kyle's shoulder as he listened again. "So anyway…do you think you could stop over this morning? I've got something kind of important to talk to you about." His eyes narrowed. "Uh huh, yeah. Ah, how did you hear about that?" He sat down at the table again. "Yeah, it's an incredible list; they're bringing food, generators, three ATVs…uh huh, yes sir they are…I have plenty of room here for them, yeah." Stan fell silent for a whole minute as he listened; Kyle could hear an occasional word from the other end of the call. "Okay, yeah, we'll do that. Um, thank you Travis; talk to you later."

He hung up and handed the phone to Kyle. "Call Kenny and tell them to come up. Tell him to call here when he gets to the end of the paved road. He'll still have cell phone service there. Travis wants to meet us down at the end of my road so they don't have to drive that truck up my road while it's muddy." He watched Kyle begin to put in Kenny's phone number and added, "Oh, just press four and speed dial."

Kyle ended the call he started to place and began again. "I saw you put in two to call Travis," Kyle said, holding Stan's phone to his head. "Who's one and three?"

"Three is my mom; you should only need one guess to figure out who one is."

Kyle looked down at the table, having hoped that would be the answer. He was about to reply when Butters answered the phone. "Hey Butters! Yeah…you two can come on up. And you guys need to call Stan's house when you get to the end of the paved road so we know you're almost here; it's about thirty miles north of the interstate. We're going to meet you at the end of Stan's driveway" He listened for a long moment. "Wow, _really?_ Okay…yeah, okay… we'll see you guys in about six hours."

He hung up and set the phone on the table. "Everything all right?" Stan asked.

"He said it was good I called when I did; about half of South Park's business district burned down last night, and the fire's still not out. And mayor fatass furloughed over half of the fire department…they're letting most of it just burn. Those two are getting out of there just in time."

"Jesus Christ…things are really getting bad out there, huh?"

Kyle nodded. "Stan, they feel real awkward about barging in and asking you to let them live here like this—"

"Dude, _no._ I'm glad they're coming; I've got plenty of room for the four of us. And I'm really happy you're here. You're…going to stay, right?"

"Are _you_, Stan?" The words were out before he could stop himself. His heart sank at the look on Stan's face. "No. I…no. I didn't mean to say that." _Not when I have something far worse to talk to you about._

Stan looked crestfallen. "Kyle, I won't ever leave you again. You have my word on that. I…I was a mess a year ago; it was so bad I was thinking about just ending it. Pulling the plug, you know?" Kyle nodded. He'd suspected that Stan's depression had gone to those sorts of depths too late to try to help; Stan had already left. "I really figured out a lot about myself this last year, and I know what a mistake I made. I should have talked to you, I should have gotten help…" His voice trailed off.

Kyle nodded. "Okay." He put both of his hands over one of Stan's on the table. "Okay, Stan. I think that's what I needed to hear from you." He looked down at their hands; he was never good at delivering bad news, and he thought the best way was to just plunge ahead with it. "Stan, there's something else I have to tell you about." Kyle suddenly looked angry and reached for his water bottle. "It…" He drank the entire bottle and set it down hard on the wood table, placing his hand on Stan's again. "Goddamnit_, _I wish you had been around last summer!"

Stan turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with Kyle's. "What happened?"

Kyle sighed. "It's Butters, Stan. He…he had a really bad health scare a few months ago." He was trembling again, but this time it wasn't his sugar level; he'd been holding this inside for a while now, wanting to share it with Stan, but he had kept the promise he'd made to himself not to trouble Stan with any of his old life until he'd sorted himself out. "He had to have surgery last June." He picked up the empty bottle and peered through the plastic at the woodstove. "Can I have some more water?"

Stan slid his own bottle in front of Kyle, never taking his eyes off him. "But… he's okay now, right? I mean…what happened to him?"

Kyle wrapped both hands around the cold plastic but left it on the table. "He had… he had skin cancer, Stan. And…it was real bad, but—" He looked down at the table. "The doctors said it got started in the scar tissue from when Kenny threw that fucking ninja star into his eye when we were eight." Kyle blinked back sudden tears; Stan felt as if he had just been punched in the stomach. Kyle added, "They had to take his eye out, Stan. He…he wears a patch over where it used to be now, and…you won't believe his collection of eye patches."

Kyle folded his arms in front of him and lowered his head into them, taking deep breaths and willing himself not to cry. Stan sat back, the full implication of what Kyle had just told him slowly hitting him through what was left of his hangover. Butters only had one eye now, and would be that way for the rest of his life.

And Kenny had caused it, a quarter of a century ago.

Stan said quietly, "Oh Jesus…but…he's okay now?"

"The doctors said they got it all." Kyle was speaking into his folded arms. "And he's still Butters, and Kenny's still Kenny, you know?" He sighed. "Butters forgives him just like he did back then, and he's going to love Kenny until the day he dies. And Kenny, well…like I said he's still Kenny. And he can't forgive himself. He says it's like he maimed him all over again."

Stan stood up and turned away from the table, his eyes roving over the counter looking for something to do, a spill to wipe up or a dish to wash.

"Butters says he needs just two things to live here," Kyle continued, looking up again and speaking to Stan's back. "He needs a warm room to sleep in, because the cold air bothers his eye at night; and he needs a place to live where no one yells at him. Kenny was ready to kill the oldest kid in that family Cartman stuck us with for the way he was talking to Butters a few times. I was ready to help, too."

Kyle stood up, grateful his legs were working normally again. He walked over to Stan and put his arm over his shoulder, turning him around and pulling him into an embrace. "They're really glad to be coming here, Stan. I mean, Butters is really excited about living on a farm. They were hoping things would work out this way. It's like…really fucked up, what you did…moving up here and leaving me, you know? But—" Kyle squeezed his arms tighter around Stan's back. "It might actually work out for the best; South Park's going to be uninhabitable soon, the way everything is falling apart. Maybe most of the world is."

Stan sobbed once, burying his face against Kyle's neck. They held each other for several long minutes while Stan's breathing slowly calmed.

"How's Butters _doing?" _Stan finally asked quietly. "I don't mean with the surgery. I mean…you know?"

"He's okay, Stan. He's taking all this a lot better than I could have." He sighed. "Like I said, they're both really happy to be coming up here."

Stan nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. He reached up behind Kyle's shoulder to wipe his eyes, then began singing softly against Kyle's ear. "Reunited, and it feels so good…reunited 'cuz it's understood…"

Kyle laughed. "Stan…what the fuck is that?"

Stan smiled and stopped singing. "It's a song from the seventies…Shelly listened to it nonstop for like an entire week when she got back together with her boyfriend when she was in twelfth grade. She had to babysit me one night when dad took my mom to a revival of 'Jesus Christ, Super Star' in Denver, and they spent the night there afterward; dude, it was all I listened to the whole night!"

They laughed, and it was the kind of laughter they shared when they were kids, falling against each other on one of their parents' couches, laughing at the antics of Terrance and Phillip on TV. Stan was already making plans in his mind to expand the room addition to add on another bedroom and bathroom. Butters would probably like a walk-in closet, too.

"We all have our childhood traumas to deal with." Kyle sighed contentedly, breathing in Stan's still-familiar and wonderful scent. "How did the rest of the song go?"

Stan moved his hands up and down Kyle's back. "Uh…there's one perfect fit, and sugar this one is it." He stopped. "No! I can't even sing the rest of it, it's so sappy!"

Kyle pretended to pout. "Oh, come on, do the rest of it for me."

"No, Kyle. It's…I mean, your blood sugar would go right off the charts if I did."

Kyle burst out laughing at that, and suddenly they were laughing in each other's arms, and he was holding _his _Stan again, and it was like they hadn't been apart for almost a year.

"I love you," Stan whispered against Kyle's ear. He began slowly rocking them back and forth, holding up most of Kyle's weight. "Do you, ah, want to go lie down and sleep or whatever?"

Kyle laughed, stepping back to hold Stan's shoulders at arms' length. "Yeah, eventually I'd like to lie down and _sleep or whatever_. But I kind of feel like I've got my second wind or something. I need to go and burn off some of that meal, and I want to see the rest of your place. Could we, maybe, go for a walk?"


End file.
